The following handwritten letter was recently found stuck to the ice encrusted marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I just might have a hypochondriac plant allergy to medicinal marijuana that was prescribed by a deranged (but cute!) botanist I met at a nudist snowshoe seminar and my unlicensed gynecologist says I’ve developed a particularly unusual case of chicken head syndrome. Yeah, I don’t know either. It’s like, so cuckoo. So what’s up with that industrial cheap-ass toilet paper you must’ve liberated from a men’s bathroom stall at the stadium? It’s got the slick texture of clear wax paper, but without perforations, softness or special quilting to help poopage cling to it for optimum wiping, plus it’s the size of a giant cheese wheel a drunk Scotsman might chase down a steep back country hill. Anyway, it sucks. Say that reminds me—are you drinking my saliva from the fridge I’ve been storing in water bottles? Damn bitch, you know my salivary glands are dry!

Hey I’m experimenting with pork bedazzles for my poultry needlework exhibit,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Hidden Hand, “For All The Wrong Reasons”